I haven't been able to write so very much of Erthe since I arrived home - maybe 3000 words in six weeks. Still, it satisfies me whenever I am able to give time to writing. Today I was listening to the Narnia soundtrack, which is beginning to grow on me. One scene from much later on in this first book struck me, as it has occasionally been wont to do. I decided I would write it at last. It is about the death of one of my secondary main characters. I thought I might post it here, especially seeing as my plot has a way of changing completely by the time I reach the actual point of writing it. Who knows if this will end up in the final product?
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The old faerie found himself lying on his back, breathing in fluttering, quick breaths and blinking rapidly up at Susan. He lay in a puddle of cold rain, but he felt neither the falling drops nor the warmth of Susan’s tears on his face. He had the vague notion that she was pressing something onto his side, trying to keep his life from pouring out. It was no use; they both knew that. Don’t waste your efforts, he wanted to say, but he was breathing too quickly to speak. Oh little Susan, don’t cry, don’t cry… And then his eyes closed, and with one last shudder, he was still.
But he could still see. All at once, there was no rain, and everything shone with reflected, silvery-white light. “This is my second sight,” thought Dr. Amosoph, “but so bright!” His eyesight felt wider and clearer, as if the world had expanded and deepened. He looked down. There was his body, lying on the ground with its eyes closed. Susan was sobbing across its chest. He wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, but, he realized, examining himself, he didn’t have a hand – or, apparently, anything else. Perhaps he was a set of floating eyes alone, because he could see very clearly indeed, and yet he could not hear the sounds of the battle any longer. How curious.
“Paul Amosoph,” called a voice from far overhead, “come here.”
The old faerie gazed upward. In place of the moon, an opening in the sky’s ebony blanket poured out light like liquid silver. The stars, out in full force, danced and whirled in swift patterns. But under all of this, a large silver bird circled in the air.
“Pharr?” called Dr. Amosoph, but he already knew that was wrong. This bird was much too large to be the phoenix.
“No, neither Pharr nor Wyde. The King has sent me to lead you in. We have been waiting for you since you were born, Paul Amosoph. You have fought hard, but now it is time for joy.”
“And them?” Dr. Amosoph looked down at Susan.
“You will see them again, when their own battles are over. Now come.” The bird banked and flew straight up, toward the opening in the sky.
Dr. Amosoph bent over. He whispered in Susan’s ear, “Farewell; don’t cry for me.” Then he sprang into the air and followed the bird.
This was no exertion. He flew swiftly and strongly. Ahead of him, the silver bird steadily beat its wings, always drawing a little farther away, until it flew into the stream of silver light and disappeared against it. Dr. Amosoph followed. Wind whipped past so fast that it turned into light, and then into music. He didn’t need skin, eyes, or ears, for the air was pure sensation. He could eat it; he could drink it. It held all sorrow, all thankfulness, and all laughter. There was no room for speaking, only for singing. And then he flew through the door into the heavens, and there we must leave him.  ¶ 2:34 PM